Kirby Wright

She spotted him beside the acacia in employee parking. He reminded her of Hazel in Watership Down. He looked skinny. She had an urge to leave food but realized he’d grow dependent and, if she ever moved on, he’d die of starvation. But she figured a few organic veggies couldn’t hurt. After work on Friday, she placed her offering on the grass beside the bush. “Hazel” she called, “sweet little Hazel.” She returned to her car and watched: a nose and twitching ears poked out of the acacia. He darted, grabbed a julienned carrot, and disappeared into his sanctuary. Several minutes passed and Hazel returned for a second. She started her car and headed for the freeway.

It became customary for her to leave carrots every day after work, and routine for her to watch. One afternoon he didn’t show. “Oh, Hazel,” she called from the driver’s seat, “where’s my sweet little Hazel?” She waited until the lot was empty. Still no Hazel. A crow landed near the carrots—she scared it off by opening and slamming the door. An hour passed and the carrots still hadn’t been touched. She thought about all the cats and dogs she’d adopted over the years: most were strays or humane society lifers. She took the long way home over the bridge, turning left on the county road. She powered her windows down. The road skirted an avocado grove and she slowed for a stand. A family was milling around the bins and crates. She sped up, crying as the wind rushed through her car.